After consulting the year-twelve contact list, I arrive at her place a little after eight. The Everharts’ flat is at the back of the unit block: a small, freestanding, cottage-like building set beside the garden. A hedge of lilly pillies grows along the front window. Next to the door is a potted fig, neatly trimmed. Other than a length of dangling gutter and some fairly horrid aluminium windows it is all rather, well, lovely.
‘I want to let you know that Edie and I are back together,’ I say when Will opens the door. ‘Just so you know. All’s well that ends well and all of that.’
She has her hands tucked into the pockets of a plain green hoodie, and ugg boots on her feet. She looks cosy – even cuddly – not that that is at all relevant. She knocks an ugg boot against the step and it makes a hollow sound. For a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. ‘That’s great, Harriet. I’m pleased for you.’ She sounds tired.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘I’m glad I didn’t, you know, ruin things too much for you.’
‘Me too.’
‘It’s good of you to drop by.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘See you after the holidays, I guess.’ She begins to close the door.
‘Yes, see you then,’ I say, lingering. The driveway looks horribly dark. The lamp on the porch is giving off such a welcoming light.
Will looks at me in that wry way she has. She takes her hands out of her pockets. ‘Unless you want to come in?’
I follow her along a short and narrow hallway, past a coat rack, a stacked umbrella stand and a crowded bookshelf. On the shelf a stick of incense is burning, filling the hall with the scent of sandalwood. At the end of the hall is a small living room and inside it, a woman perched on a couch watching television with the sound turned down, holding a glass of wine.
‘Mum, this is Harriet.’
Will’s mother puts the glass down. She stands up and hugs me, which is a little awkward given we have never met.
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ she says, smiling. ‘Will’s told me nothing about you, but then she never tells me anything, so that’s no surprise. You dropping by makes me sorry I have to go out.’
‘You’re going somewhere?’ I ask, eyeing her full-length bathrobe.
‘What a surprise,’ says Will, not sounding at all surprised.
‘Don’t worry,’ her mother says to me. ‘I’m sure Miss Sarcasm here will look after you. She might even offer you a biscuit if you ask her nicely.’
Will blushes, which is more of a surprise than anything. She moves into the kitchen and takes a packet of Tim Tams from a corner cupboard. ‘You eat these, Harriet?’
I nod.
‘We’ll leave you to get ready, Mum.’
I follow Will back across the living room and down the hall. We reach the front room.
Her bedroom.
This was possibly a bad idea.
She leads me through the door, held open by a pile of art books like the pile in the storeroom.
Why am I suddenly thinking about the storeroom?
A wooden easel stands in the corner. A framed Prado poster hangs crookedly above the bed. Will eases herself onto the mattress and leans up against the headboard. ‘You can sit wherever you want,’ she says, opening the biscuits.
I perch carefully on the edge of the desk. ‘I like your mother.’
‘I think she likes you.’ She looks amused.
‘I mean it. My mother’s not friendly that way.’
Will looks like she’s going to say something but doesn’t. She holds out the biscuits.
I take one and peer around. On her desk stands a shadowbox filled with trinkets – toy cars, vintage buttons, a miniature cactus in a pot. On the wall are dozens of postcards, clippings and photographs – so much swirling colour! Will takes a bite of her biscuit, her brown eyes gazing at me. Her voice is low, almost a murmur. ‘Come and sit up here. You’ll be more comfortable.’ She nods at the portion of the mattress next to her.
‘I don’t know …’ Now I’m the one blushing. Why am I blushing?
The mattress dips with my weight and she falls lightly against me, her arm against mine. Heat blooms on my skin like a flower. Will glances at the open door. Does she want me to say something? I can hear the close rhythm of her breathing. I am aware of the rise of her chest. I stare at a crumb of chocolate on the corner of her mouth and suddenly feel disoriented.
What was the question again?
Chapter 25
WILL
This is the state of things: Harriet is killing me. Preppy Harriet with her perfect teeth and her perfect hair with more shine than a jar of honey. Sports-star Harriet with her breath that smells of peppermint and her skin that smells of peppermint and her peppermint-smelling legs that are long and toned from all that tennis.
Her arms, too, are tennis player arms. Then there are her Tawney Shield tennis-player shoulders. So much about her is Tawney, and Tawney is everything I’m against.
So why can’t I stop thinking about her?
There is so much about Harriet to dislike – her pretentious vocab, her French-polished nails, her sockettes. But as much as I try to dislike them, somehow I love how much I hate them. And it makes things worse.
Is this what Mum meant about differences making things interesting? Nothing about this situation makes sense. Harriet herself makes no sense. Ever since the storeroom, there’s been no correlation between what she does and anything she says. Asking me to stay away from her and then driving to my house. Saying she’s back with Edie and then spending two hours loitering in my bedroom. Nothing happened – not a goddamn thing – but what does it matter? Every time I see her I crash deeper into madness.
